


The Secret Room

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Animal Death, Awkward Sexual Situations, Babies, Bittersweet, Bondage, Captivity, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Escape, F/M, Fingerfucking, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Hair-pulling, Injury, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Playing House, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Sexual Slavery, Size Kink, Spreader Bars, Survival, Threats, Threesome - F/M/M, Travels, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa had lost track of how long she'd been in the secret room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa had lost track of how long she'd been in the secret room. The windows were high, narrow slits, barely wide enough for her to squeeze an arm through even if she'd been able to reach them, but through them she could note the passage of light and dark, at least. Her days were quiet and mostly uneventful, punctuated only by his visits. She thought maybe three years had passed since he'd put her here, but she couldn't be sure. All she knew was that she felt older, ever so much older. At first she had tried to count the days, but soon she'd lost track and given up. It was colder now, though, drawing close to winter.

The King paid his visits to her sporadically. He might come every night for a week, and then not for a month. She never knew when to expect him, and that made the waiting worse, at least at first. Every morning she would wake up in a panic, until eventually she existed in a state of perpetual anxiety. She would often dream of killing him, tearing his throat out, and wake up screaming, expecting her hands and mouth to be red with his blood. Then, one day, the dread simply stopped. She couldn't have explained why, but it no longer mattered what he did to her. Something inside her had died, maybe her instinct for self-preservation or her pride or her hope for the future. Nothing could possibly be worse, and it would never get better. Ever since then, she moved as if through a haze, watching everything he did to her as a disinterested observer instead of a participant.

The room seemed to be inaccessible from the rest of the palace, and, by the angle of the light through the windows near the ceiling, mostly below ground. She rarely heard any noise from outside, apart from the occasional chirp of birds that landed on one of the sills. She had been blindfolded when he brought her there. Maybe he had stocked it himself, or perhaps its contents had already been there, the leftover toys of one of the less-sane Targaryens, perhaps. Joffrey was certainly proving himself their equal, perhaps even their superior, in terms of depravity. He used her viciously, doing things to her that he could never do to his wife, his precious Margaery, not because he loved her so, but because her family were numerous and observant. Sansa's family were all dead or far beyond her reach, and no one else had been able to protect her. Perhaps Joffrey had let it be known that she was dead, or had joined the Silent Sisters, or fled across the ocean, she didn't know. Sometimes she thought about those other Sansas, and how lovely it would be to trade places with any of them.

The only other person she saw was a servant, built like a female Mountain, who seemed to be both deaf and mute. Sansa never knew her name, but she was grey-haired and more than a little whiskery, so she called her "Lady." Lady tended to her needs, brought food and took away waste, made sure that she was clean and well-groomed, and walked away without looking back whenever the King arrived for one of his visits. Sansa used to scream at her sometimes, but the woman was imperturbable, and eventually Sansa found it was worse to hear her own voice echoing off the stone walls than to bear the silence.

She thought she'd been pregnant once. Her moon's blood hadn't come for perhaps two months, and she'd felt dizzy and sick much of the time, barely able to eat. But then her flow had returned with a vengeance, doubling her over with cramps that had left her pale and shaking. Maybe Lady had slipped her something in her tea, or maybe it had just happened on its own, she wasn't sure. Since then, there had been no hint of a child - just another thing inside her that was broken, she felt sure.

This day had passed like so many others before it. Sansa had dozed most of the day away, picking idly at the food that Lady put before her (cut already into bite-sized pieces, for she was allowed no knife), knowing that the tray wouldn't be removed until she had cleared it. It was always enough to sustain her, and she had learned the hard way they would not permit her to starve herself. She had sat patiently while Lady combed and braided her hair, a lengthy process now that it had grown past her waist. She had leafed idly through a book of verse - books were one of the few entertainments she was still permitted. Even embroidery was off-limits, since she might theoretically be able to arm herself with the delicate little scissors. She was just drifting off to sleep again when she heard the familiar click and scrape of a key in the lock. It would not be Lady coming back at this hour. There was only one person it could be. Part of her settled down to watch what was about to happen, while her body jerked bolt upright in bed.

"Good evening, Sansa," said the King.

"Good evening, my lord," she replied mechanically. She had learned long ago that refusing to answer him would only make things worse.

He looked around the room, as if considering his options. "I think …the bar tonight," he said casually, looking at her to see her reaction.

"Yes," she nodded, "I would like that." He frowned slightly. Probably he had hoped she would plead with him, No, not that. But in truth, the bar was less awful than some of the other alternatives, and no matter what she said, it was going to happen anyway. She might as well agree.

There was no need for her to disrobe - she was permitted no clothing except what he occasionally provided for her to wear briefly in order that he might strip it off her. Her pale skin prickled with gooseflesh as she left the warmth of the blankets and stood patiently while he gathered his tools. The bar was long and metal, with a set of manacles at either end. "Face down on the bed," he instructed her, and she jumped to obey him, taking up a position with her arse pointed up in the air and her head resting against the mattress. He clasped her ankles with the cuffs, forcing her to spread her legs wider than was comfortable and leaving her unable to bring them back together. Her hands, he tied behind her back with silk rope. She didn't struggle. His fingers probed roughly at her open slit, and she stared at the wall, feeling nothing.

"You're not very wet, Sansa," he chided her.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said instinctively, as she always did when he reprimanded her.

"Don't worry," he replied with a chuckle. He seemed to be in an unusually good mood, and she could smell the wine on his breath. "I have a surprise tonight that should loosen you up soon enough." Before she could wonder what that meant, he delivered a slap to her backside that left it pink and stinging, and stuffed a cloth gag tightly between her jaws, then walked away. She couldn't see where he had gone, but she thought he might have left the room.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard footsteps returning - two sets, this time - and then a deep voice. "What in the seven hells…?" She had known that voice once. She struggled to twist her head, but the restraints held her too tightly.

"This isn't hell, it's heaven," she heard Joffrey say. "I suppose she's changed a little since you saw her last. I seem to recall you were a little sweet on her, as a matter of fact." He laughed, a cruel, ringing sound, and Sansa was, for the first time in ages, shaking. The Hound was here, looking at her, and she was exposed to him in all her shame. She felt herself blush in a way she hadn't since the first few times Joffrey had stripped her. "Go ahead and take her, Dog," continued the king. "After all, it's not as if she can run screaming from the sight of you."

"You've kept her here all this time?" The Hound sounded incredulous.

"Obviously," said Joffrey. "I couldn't very well let her go, now, could I?"

"I thought you'd put her in the Black Cells…"

"That wouldn't have been any _fun_ , though," Joff explained, as though the Hound was simple-minded. "Look at her, spread out and waiting for you. You can't tell me you don't want her."

The Hound didn't answer immediately, but Sansa could hear him move closer, heavy feet on thick carpet. She wished she could sink through the bed and disappear. "I won't do it," she heard him say, and felt a sickly mixture of relief and regret swell in her chest. "Not like this."

"Let me put it another way, Dog," said Joffrey, going deadly calm all of a sudden. Sansa knew all too well that that tone of voice could herald a sudden outburst of violence. "Fuck her, or I'll have your head on a pike before sunset. It might actually look _better_ once it's been dipped in pitch," he said with another manic giggle.

There was a long silence, and then Sansa felt the bed shift with the weight of that heavy body. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that he was kneeling behind her. The sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor told her all she needed to know about what he was doing there. "Little bird," he said under his breath, and his hand on the small of her back was almost gentle. "May I?"

"Oh, you want to hear _her_ opinion on the matter?" Joffrey laughed. "Very well, you can take the gag out. It might be amusing." Sansa choked slightly as the dry fabric was pulled out of her mouth. Her tongue and throat felt swollen, and she doubted whether she'd be able to squeeze any words out at all. Joffrey prodded her in the side, though. "He asked you a question, pet. Give him his answer."

"Yes," she said hoarsely. There was nothing else she _could_ say.

But still Sandor hesitated, that large hand resting lightly on her bare hip.

"What do you want her to say?" Joff pressed him with a snort. "That she wants you? That she loves you? She'll do as she's told - that ought to be enough." He reached under Sansa's body and gave her nipple a sharp pinch, making her gasp.

"I prefer them willing, that's all."

"And I'm sure the women you've had have been more than willing, once you've paid them enough."

The Hound ignored the slight, as he was surely well-accustomed to doing after his years of service to the king. "She's not ready. It'll be rough going."

"Oh, you'd rather she was slick and eager for you?"

"Slick, anyway. Doesn't have to be over-eager."

"Get her ready then, however you like." With an airy wave of his hand, Joffrey settled into the chair to watch them.

Sansa didn't move when the Hound's fingers started gently exploring between her parted lips. He'd presumably licked them, for they slid over her skin easily, seeking out the nub of her pleasure, circling it slowly before actually touching it, grazing lightly across its raised surface before pressing any harder. His other hand reached around to cup her breast softly. Something about his fumbling touches, awkward though they were, moved her, and soon, to her mild astonishment, she felt her body beginning to react to his attention, letting his fingers glide more smoothly. She twitched slightly when he slowly pushed one thick digit into her, but made no noise. She felt as though she must be blushing all the way to her toes. Her eyes were screwed shut, but she felt his face close to hers, his breath warm on her cheek. "Now, may I?" he asked again.

"Yes," she repeated.

"Because you want me?"

 _Because I don't want him to kill you_. "Because I want to please my lord."

Joffrey laughed at her answer. "Get to it, Hound, she's not going to tell you what you want to hear. She's my creature now, and anything that you do to her happens by my leave."

She heard the Hound sigh, a puff of cool breath up her spine, and then he was at her entrance, forcing his way inside her. She couldn't help but cry out; he was so much larger than Joffrey. She felt as though she might split in two. He sank into her deeply and stayed there, leaning heavily against her back. After what seemed a very long time, he drew back again, pulling out of her entirely, making her gasp with the sudden emptiness. "There," he rasped, "it's done."

"That's not _done_ ," Joffrey said with a frown. "I wanted you to give the bitch a good solid pounding, not one measly little thrust. She's sorely disappointed with your performance so far - just look at her! Tell him, Sansa."

"I want more," she said softly.

"Tell him what you want him to do to you."

"Use me," she replied, her words seeming to come from somewhere other than her conscious mind. "As hard as you want. However you want. Please, fuck me."

"Gods, what have you done to her?" Sandor said under his breath.

Joffrey heard the muttered question, and deigned to answer it. "I've trained her."

"Broken her, you mean." The Hound sounded as though he was barely keeping his anger in check.

"Call it what you will. She's much more enjoyable to be around now, though, don't you think? No more crying and complaining all the time - just a blank face and an open quim. Every man should be so lucky."

Sandor said nothing.

"Don't forget about the headsman's block, Dog. It's still waiting for you unless you fuck her until she screams. Loosen her up for me, and maybe, if I feel like it, I'll take her while she's still full of your seed. You can watch."

Sansa felt the Hound's hand come down on her shoulder, light as a bird. "I'm sorry," he said simply, and then she was being torn asunder again. His thrusts came fast and hard, but not mercilessly. His weight on her back was heavy, but not unbearable. She gasped, but not in pain.

"Pull her up by the hair," Joff ordered. She could see out of the corner of one tear-filled eye that he was unlacing his breeches, stroking himself into readiness.

Sandor did as he was told, hauling back on her thick braid to lift her face off the mattress, but he gripped the rope binding her hands too, so that it bore some of the weight. It still hurt, but not as badly as it might have. She was drawn up close enough to his body that she could feel the heat coming off him, warming the cold skin of her back, even as she was forced down onto his cock with most of her weight. Joff slid in quickly under her, positioning himself so that his rigid cock jutted up toward her lips.

"You're going to suck me now, pet." He stroked one finger almost tenderly along her jawline, then grabbed hold of a tight fistful of hair at the back of her skull and forced her down onto him. She was prepared for it, at least, so she managed not to choke.

"Your precious Hound does this for me too, you know," the king added in a conversational tone as she sucked him. "He's not as good at it as you are, but then, he hasn't had nearly as much practice."

Sansa waited for the Hound to deny it, but he said nothing, just kept steadily reaming her. His breath was coming harder, short, muffled grunts matched with each thrust. Her hip joints were sore from the combination of the repetitive pounding and the bar stretching her legs wide apart, but it was a dull pain, not like the ache in her scalp and neck from Joffrey's vigorous yanks on her hair.

There was a knock at the door. All of them froze. Sansa had never heard anyone come to the door while the king was with her. Joffrey swore and struggled his way out from under her, leaving her mercifully free to rest her head on the mattress again. He pulled up his breeches and, holding them together with one hand, went to the door. "No sound," he told them sharply before he opened it a crack. "What the fuck is the matter with you?" he snarled. "I'm never, never to be disturbed while I'm here. I should have you executed, you stupid bitch!"

Sansa lay motionless, with the Hound still sheathed inside her. Her cunt was sore, throbbing in time with the beat of her heart. He was resting heavily against her back, one hand on the mattress to steady him, and his lips were warm, just a fraction of an inch away from her cheek. "Do you want me to end this?" he breathed, so softly she barely heard him.

She thought her heart might stop. A way out, or a quick death? Either way, at least it would be over. She nodded her head, afraid even to whisper, and, in case he hadn't got the message, squeezed him as tightly as she was able to with her inner muscles. His only response was a sharp intake of breath followed a long, shuddering exhalation.

"I don't care," Joff was yelling at whichever unfortunate lackey stood on the other side of the door. "If they haven't breached the walls, then why the fuck are you bothering me with irrelevant news? The next person to disturb me here will get a good long look at their own entrails, even if it's you!" He slammed the door and came back to the bed, muttering angrily. "Where were we…?"

"I'm done with her," Sandor said, pulling out of Sansa, drawing an involuntary moan from her lips. She knew he hadn't finished, he was still as hard as ever, but Joffrey either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Fine," said the king, stripping off his silken shirt and casting it aside. "Was she everything you'd dreamed of?"

"No," said the Hound tersely. He turned his back, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Sansa could hear the clink of his belt's metal buckle as he picked it up from the floor.

Joffrey laughed, but the sound was strained at the edges. "Too bad. At least you've greased her well for me." He dropped his breeches and clambered onto the bed to mount her from behind. "Gods, you're loose," he told Sansa as he slid into her. "Did you come for him, you little whore?"

She wasn't sure what he wanted to hear. "No," she said after a moment's consideration, her voice partly muffled by the mattress. What was the Hound doing? She couldn't see him, but she guessed he was somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Joffrey was reaching around her now, squeezing her breasts roughly, pinching her nipples hard between his fingers. "Maybe I'll let you come for me tonight. As a treat for behaving yourself so well." One of his hands wormed its way down her stomach to the cleft between her thighs, teasing her clitoris lightly in time with each stroke of his cock. "Margaery likes it when I do this," he told her. "It makes her scream like a mare in heat." Against her will, Sansa groaned, squirming as best as she could within her bonds to shrink away from his touch, knowing it was futile. If he wanted to make her climax, he could - he'd done it before. Though he always described it as a reward for her, she only felt more soiled than ever afterwards, as though she hadn't even been able to resist him that much. Betrayed by her own body.

"Are you looking, Dog?" Joffrey asked sharply. "She says she didn't peak for you - understandable, I suppose, you're no great shakes in bed - but you can at least watch her when she comes for me."

"I haven't stopped looking," said Sandor, his voice a low growl. "Believe me, I plan to remember this moment for the rest of my life."

Joffrey's laugh was cut short by a heavy, meaty thud, and Sansa screamed as she was flattened beneath his sudden collapse. But it was only for an instant before he was moved - lifted? - off her and tossed bodily against the nearest wall, where he slumped down to the floor. Then Sandor was helping her sit up, moving her carefully to the edge of the bed, and untying her hands.

"His belt," she managed to say, "the keys," but she couldn't make the words fit together into a sentence. Fortunately, the Hound was already fumbling in the discarded clothes for a small ring of keys that Joffrey always kept with him. Sansa couldn't stop staring at the bright red stain on the wall where the king had landed. He wasn't moving, but she didn't dare look any closer to try and guess if he was alive or dead. In a few short moments, Sandor had unlocked the manacles around her ankles and she was able to move her legs freely once more. She had to fight against the urge to curl up into a ball in the middle of the bed and hide under the blankets the way she'd done as a little girl when something had frightened her in the night. Instead, she just rubbed her wrists to try and restore feeling to her hands, which prickled uncomfortably with pins and needles.

"Can you move?" Sandor asked her. His voice held a suggestion of concern, but more urgency. She nodded. "Good, get off the bed and start putting his clothes on."

She did as she was told, pulling the discarded silken shirt over her head. It hung past her hips, far too large, but she didn't care. Sandor glanced over as Joffrey moaned and stirred, then crossed over to pick him up and throw him face-down on the bed. The bar he'd just discarded was conveniently at-hand, and with a smile that chilled Sansa more than the cold air, he snapped each manacle closed around one of the king's ankles.

"Seems fitting," he said, glancing over at Sansa. She just nodded, wordless, and bent to pick up his breeches and pull them on. They were tight across her hips and thighs, but she managed to squeeze into them. Sandor was surveying the contents of the room. He flicked his finger along the row of riding crops and whips hanging from one wall. "He used these on you?"

"Yes," Sansa said softly, crouching to roll up the pant legs. She looked up only when she heard the sudden crack, and saw a red welt forming across Joffrey's bare backside.

Sandor stood calmly with one of the heaviest whips in hand. "Did you want a go?" he asked, holding it out towards her.

"I couldn't." Her hands were shaking so hard she knew she'd drop it if she tried to take it from him.

But the Hound was already looking around the room for something else. He stared at a thick club-like implement, studded all over with rough knobs. "This too?" he asked her, hefting it curiously.

"Yes," she said again. "Everything here he used on me at one time or another."

"He hit you with this, or…?"

She shook her head. "Inside." She remembered clearly how she had screamed.

Sandor winced. "Bastard," he muttered. Joffrey stirred again on the bed, trying to move but failing for the moment. The Hound moved quickly, grabbing the loose coil of rope off the ground and tying the king's hands behind him as easily as trussing a goose. For an added twist, he looped the rope around Joffrey's head as well, between his jaws, so that it both gagged him and forced his neck back at an awkward angle. "Like this, you little shit?" he asked, holding up the club so Joffrey could see it. "Time for a taste of your own medicine."

Sansa closed her eyes and turned away, but she could hear the muffled screams ringing in her ears. When they died down to a whimper, she worked up her courage enough to look back and see that the handle of the implement was sticking out of Joffrey's arse. "We should get out of here," she said desperately.

"Not that much of a rush," replied the Hound. "He's not to be disturbed for the rest of the night, after all. Enough time for this, anyway." He unlaced his breeches, letting them fall around his knees, and Sansa could see he was still hard, and knew what he needed to do.

"Let me help," she said, crossing the room to him. He hesitated only a moment before nodding, and she took his thick shaft in her small, pale hand, half-leaning against him and half-supporting him. It only took a few strokes before he shuddered and moaned, spattering his cream across the king's upturned face and onto his left shoulder. With one large hand he reached out to smear the mess in, then turned to Sansa.

"Now we can go," he said, drawing up his breeches and tying them. "No one will find him until morning, or later if we're lucky, and by then we'll be miles away." He locked the door, taking the keys with him, with the intention of tossing them down a well once they were some distance from the city. They could hear no noise at all from the room on the other side of the thick door, from the room where Sansa knew a part of herself would always remain. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders protectively, the Hound led her out through the twists and turns of the secret passageway, until they were finally outside.

It was dark, though the clear sky was bright with distant stars. Their breath hung in front of them like a cloud, and as Sansa leaned against her terrible savior, a light dusting of snow began to fall.


	2. Iron at the Core

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They rode in silence until dawn, then took shelter in a long-abandoned barn.

They rode in silence until dawn, then took shelter in a long-abandoned barn. Sandor spread his cloak for her on the mouldering hay. "Rest."

She could have wrinkled her nose at the smell, but she was too exhausted. Instead she lay down and slept.

When she woke, he stood above her in silhouette. Sunlight pierced every crack in the decrepit walls and streamed around him like molten gold, and he was the dark iron at the core. "My lord?"

"I'm no one's lord, especially not yours." He crouched beside her, brushed a tangled chestnut lock off her cheek as gently as he was able to.

Sansa started to shake, terror at her freedom overtaking her. He stilled her with one strong arm, pressing her against his chest. "Why did you do it?" she asked. "We'll never be safe now."

"We weren't safe before." He couldn't help but ache, though, when his little bird tried to unlace his breeches - ached to throw her down and have her, but ached too for the loss of the sweet maiden she'd once been. In confusion, he slapped her hand away and stood up.

He could hear the tears in her voice when she spoke. "I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you wanted me to… I only meant to please you."

"Sing, then," he told her, still not looking back. In his mind's eye he saw the knights who were already hunting them down like dogs. "But quietly. Only for me."


	3. The Long Road Home

When they fled King's Landing, Sandor wasn't armed with anything larger than a dagger. The land they traveled through was war-torn and desolate, and every so often they would come across a dead soldier, or even a group of them. Sandor always insisted on stopping to search the remains, while Sansa tried not to look too closely. She knew he was hoping to find a sword, or some armor that would fit him, but so far he'd had no luck. The bodies were almost always stripped of anything useful. Once he'd found a water-skin and some stale bread, once a wool blanket with only a few holes in it, and another time there had been a pair of boots that almost fit Sansa, those last from a young boy who didn't look any older than twelve. That had been a very good day - the snow, though still light, was staying on the ground, and Joffrey's shoes, aside from being much too large for her, weren't intended for anything more strenuous than an evening's dancing. After that, at least Sansa's toes didn't feel like they were going to fall off from cold when she walked.

The Hound was far from defenseless, even though he didn't have a sword. In the barn where they'd sheltered the first night, he'd found a pitchfork leaning against the wall, missing one tine and coated with rust but still solid enough. He spent each evening cleaning and sharpening it while Sansa managed as best as she could with their meagre food. They spoke only occasionally, or when absolutely necessary.

They kept off the kingsroad as much as possible, and made their nightly camps as unobtrusive as they could. Sansa knew that the Hound thought they were being tracked, and was doing what little he could to hide the traces of their passage. The thought should probably have frightened her, but she seemed to have moved beyond fear and into a state of steady numbness.

He'd cut her hair off with his knife on the second day. "Too obvious," he said bluntly. "Makes you stand out." She'd wept at the loss, but bowed her neck and let him hack it roughly to chin-level. Now it was longer on one side than the other, and blew in her eyes and got in her mouth, and she could never keep it looking neat, but the Hound said it was better than way - she looked less like a noblewoman on the run. "Can't make you look like a boy," he said, sounding almost disappointed, "but it's better."

"I'm ugly," she said miserably.

"Believe me, you aren't," the Hound replied curtly. She pretended not to notice that he'd kept one long auburn lock, coiled neatly and tucked into the pouch at his belt where he also kept his whetstone and a few coins he was hoarding in case of true desperation.

On the rare occasions they came upon a village that hadn't been completely pillaged or abandoned, he would try to earn them some warm food and a place to sleep by doing odd jobs - chopping wood, often, or mending a roof, or once, slaughtering an old, vicious boar with tusks near as long as Sansa's forearm. They ate well that night, though the pig's flesh was tough and stringy, and they were put up to sleep in the loft of the widow's house. Sandor told the old woman that Sansa was his wife, and she felt a secret thrill go through her, but he still slept with his face to the wall, as far away from her as he could get.

"Where are we going?" she mustered the courage to ask him after they'd been walking for a week or more.

"North," he said gruffly. "To find your family, what's left of it, or their bannermen." He glanced at her, sidelong. "Somewhere you'll be safe."

Sansa remembered how long the trip south had taken, and they'd had horses then. She didn't think they could possibly make it that far on foot, with winter coming on, but she didn't say anything. They crossed the bridge over the Trident, which was dotted with flat, broken slabs of ice, and passed into the Riverlands.

As the pale, cold sun was drawing near the horizon, they came across another nameless village. This one looked to have been gutted - half of the buildings had burned to the ground, and there was no sign of any survivors. However, there were a few scrawny chickens huddled in the rafters of one of the less-ruined cottages, and that was enough to lure them in, that and the prospect of a night under a roof, out of the cold. Sandor carefully made tracks to several houses, obscuring their true path as well as possible, before they took shelter in the one they'd chosen. Watching Sandor chase the chickens, which fluttered and squawked away from him as he ran, Sansa actually laughed, for the first time in…she couldn't remember how long. Sandor glowered at first, but then his frown had lifted, and she knew that even though he wasn't laughing along with her, he was happy.

As he killed and plucked the unfortunate fowl he finally managed to capture, Sansa had a look in the grimy root cellar, and came up with two withered parsnips and an onion that was only half-moldy - a good haul. There was even a well-worn paring knife stuck into one of the beams that she could use to cut them up, rather than having to resort to Sandor's dagger. Soon they had a respectable soup bubbling over the fire, and it smelled better than Sansa could have imagined. As it cooked, she worked to stuff the small gaps and cracks in the wooden walls with straw, knowing that the cold would seep in through any available openings.

After they'd eaten their fill, Sandor dragged a shabby down-filled mattress out of the loft and pulled it near the fire. "You'll be warmer here, the roof leaks," he said, as he gestured for her to take it. She lay down and waited for him to join her, but he kept pacing anxiously.

"What's wrong?" she asked hesitantly.

"The fire," was all he said. At first she thought he was frightened of it, and that seemed strange, because it was only a small hearth and he hadn't objected when she'd lit it in the first place. But then she realized he meant the smoke from the chimney - that it might be seen from the road, perhaps, and give them away.

"We can let it go out," she told him. "It will be warm enough without it."

He considered the problem, then nodded, grudgingly. She stopped feeding sticks into the blaze and gradually it began to die down. Sansa hugged her knees close to her chest and watched the glowing embers. "Why didn't you kill him?" she asked, touching on the subject they never addressed.

The Hound looked over in surprise. "I couldn't," he said simply. "I was charged with protecting him. I'm no Kingslayer."

"But you…"

"I didn't do anything worse than what he'd done to you, did I?" Sansa shook her head. "It was fair punishment, then," Sandor said, his voice grim. "Justice."

Sansa couldn't say anything to that. She wanted to ask if it was true what Joffrey had said about the…the things the Hound had done for him, but she was too afraid of what the answer might be. Instead she lay down on the mattress and pulled the thin blanket around her, facing the dwindling fire, and closed her eyes. Strangely enough, she didn't feel that tired, but she knew the Hound wouldn't settle down until he thought she was asleep.

As she expected, eventually he gave in and stretched out on the mattress beside her. It was a little warmer with him there beside her, even though they weren't touching. Still pretending to sleep, she rolled over until she was close to him, curled against his side. He stiffened, but didn't pull away, and finally, gingerly, he wrapped one huge arm around her. "Love you, little bird," he muttered, and she knew it was only because he thought she couldn't hear him that he'd dared to say it at all.

She wanted to please him, but didn't know how. The last time she'd tried to touch him, he'd pushed her hand away and seemed cross with her. If she said anything in response to his secret declaration, he would know she'd heard and might be embarrassed, or worse, angry. She settled for letting one of her hands rest on the side of his chest, curling safe in the circle of his strong arm, feeling his breathing slow until he was finally asleep, before finally drifting off herself.

Shortly before dawn, when the grey light was growing pink at the edges, she woke. The fire had gone out sometime in the night, and it was chilly in the abandoned cottage. Sandor was still beside her, but he was turned away from her, so that she faced the steep wall of his back. She could tell he wasn't asleep either, for he was stirring, his arm and shoulder moving ever so slightly, and his breathing was quick and shallow, not the slow, steady rhythm she'd fallen asleep to. As soon as she yawned and stretched, he froze into stillness, and she suddenly realized what he'd been doing, surreptitiously, as he lay beside her. Before she could think it through, she murmured, "You don't have to do that. I would do it for you, if you wanted."

The Hound didn't reply for a very long time, and she feared he was going to just ignore her and pretend it hadn't happened. But finally he said, gruffly, "I know."

She heard him fumbling with his breeches, lacing them up again, and felt her heart sink. "Then why…?"

"Because," Sandor said, his voice thick and hoarse, "he made you his. You've got his stamp on you, his taint. Anything you'd do for me, you learned from him, and I don't want that. Don't want to remind you of that. I wanted you to be mine alone, but I know you can't ever be, not now."

It was the longest speech he'd made to her in days, and she didn't know what to say in response. He was disgusted by her, by what had been done to her, and she could never again become that pure maiden he'd once desired. She felt like crying, but the tears didn't come. Instead, she said, desperately, knowing he wouldn't believe her, "You could make me yours."

He rolled over slowly until he was facing her, and she made herself look straight into his eyes. His lips parted, but she didn't get a chance to find out whether it was to say something or to kiss her, because at that moment, both of them heard the sound of horses' hooves crunching through the snow outside. In an instant Sandor was on his feet, grabbing the pitchfork from its place beside the door. Sansa scrambled up as well, though she wasn't sure what she could do if their pursuers had finally caught up with them. "Stay there," the Hound told her in a whisper, and she nodded, eyes wide.

He clutched his weapon with both hands, and risked pulling out a handful of straw to take a peek through one of the small gaps between the planks. "Only two," he muttered after a moment, and she saw a look of grim satisfaction cross his face.

A knight's voice rang out through the empty village. "Surrender, Hound, and we will be merciful!"

"Bugger that," Sandor said under his breath, stepping towards the door. He glanced back at Sansa one last time. "You have to watch, little bird, not hide your eyes. If they bring me down," he told her softly, "you know what to do."

She nodded and found that the small kitchen knife was already in her hand. "They won't take me alive," she said, trying not to let her voice shake. It wasn't that she was afraid of dying, but she found that she was afraid of Sandor's willingness to die for her sake. How could he sacrifice himself for someone so worthless? It seemed wrong, backwards.

Sandor took three deep breaths, then threw open the door. Sansa crouched to one side, resisting the sudden, violent urge to pull him back, to keep him from doing this foolish, pointless thing. Maybe they could surrender, she thought desperately, and make everything go back to the way it had been before. But she knew it was impossible after what had happened. Joffrey would never forgive her, never take her back.

She made herself watch through a crack in the wall. Sandor walked calmly toward the two mounted knights – Kingsguard, she could see their white cloaks. One – she thought it must be Ser Boros Blount, by his girth – called out for him to halt and lay down his weapons, but his horse sidled nervously back and Sansa realized that he was frightened to face the Hound, even so poorly armed. Sandor slowly drew his dagger from its sheath and held it out in his left hand, the pitchfork in his right. He was perhaps fifteen paces from the closest of the knights, a younger man Sansa didn't recognize. Sandor let his arms fall limp to his sides, his head drooping as if he was defeated. The younger knight edged his horse a few paces closer, his sword at the ready and shield raised. "Throw down," he ordered, his voice sharp and proud.

Sandor raised his head then, and Sansa was glad she couldn't see the expression on his face. "I will," he said simply, and then, with a movement so quick she could barely follow it, he hurled the pitchfork at the knight, who saw it coming and tried to turn to avoid it. Despite the unwieldy weapon, Sandor's aim was true – it caught the young man in the hip as he turned, piercing him through. He screamed and his steed reared up. Sansa could see him struggling to keep his seat, and failing, falling heavily to the ground, pulled down by the weight of the farm implement still buried in his flesh.

Ser Boros Blount started back at the sudden attack, and wheeled his mount around, keeping a good distance from the Hound. He too had his sword drawn, and yet he seemed reluctant to attack. Sandor took advantage of the delay to run to the fallen knight and grab his sword. Although the snow was stained red all around him, still the knight tried to keep his grip on his sword. Sansa heard a grunt from Sandor, and she thought he must have taken a wound, but then he kicked the fallen knight in the face and the sword was in his hand. He only hesitated a moment before sheathing his dagger and pulling the pitchfork free. The knight didn't scream this time (Sansa found herself hoping he was dead, not just unconscious), but blood fountained from his body as the fork was removed.

Sandor was caught in the spray, and as he turned to Ser Boros, Sansa caught a glimpse of his face, like some demon out of a nightmare, wet with gore and grinning. "Stay back!" Ser Boros warned him, but Sandor kept advancing, relentless. Sansa scurried to the other side of the door to try and keep them in her sights. By the time she'd found a new peephole, the sounds of fighting were already loud from the yard. Even though Ser Boros was on horseback, and thus should have had the advantage, Sandor was managing to harry him with sword and pitchfork. He jabbed the horse in the leg, once, twice, fast as lightning, and it gave a sickening cry, kicking out wildly before it stumbled to its knees, thrashing. Sandor cursed loudly, clearly struck. She hoped it was only a glancing blow – a kick from a trained warhorse could cripple a man, if it didn't kill him outright.

Somehow Ser Boros managed to land on his feet as his horse dropped. He swung at Sandor, and the Hound blocked with the pitchfork. Blount's sword splintered its wooden handle, leaving the head swinging uselessly. Sandor threw it aside and took his stolen sword in both hands, planting his feet firmly on the red-stained snow. Sansa couldn't help it – she closed her eyes for a moment, too afraid to look. She could hear blades clashing together, the dull ring of sword meeting armor, and then, suddenly, a gurgling cry that sounded different from the others. She opened her eyes in time to see Ser Boros slip to his knees, his throat skewered by the Hound's sword. Sandor planted a foot on his chest and pulled the blade out in a single smooth motion, and then the only sound in the clearing was the screaming of the injured horse. She chose not to watch as Sandor put the poor creature out of its misery, and was grateful that it was finally over.

The other knight's horse had bolted, but hadn't run too far. Sandor caught it, looping its reins around a post outside the cottage so it couldn't flee. He also efficiently stripped the fallen knights of their armor and weapons, stacking them to one side along with their cloaks. He was limping slightly, she noticed. Sansa saw him take two handfuls of clean snow and scrub at his face, watched the melt-water running down his neck and chest turn from red to a dull pink, and was touched by his efforts to clean himself up before he returned to her. She wondered how much of the blood he was washing off was his own.

Then he was standing in the doorway of the cottage, silhouetted in the early morning light. His shoulders heaved with the effort of drawing breath. Sansa tried to stand and realized that her legs were trembling too much. The knife, forgotten in her hand, fell to the dirt floor as she plopped down on the mattress instead and tried to think of the proper thing to say to him. "Thank you" seemed inadequate, somehow, for a man who had just risked his life for hers, shed his blood to keep her safe. "Are… are you hurt?" she asked at last.

"I'll live," he muttered. She could see now that he had several sword cuts, the most serious a deep wound to the left shoulder – a few inches higher, a slightly different angle, and it might have taken off his head, she realized with a queasy feeling in her tummy. He also seemed to be favouring his right leg. As she watched, he sat down heavily on the wooden bench by the door and bent to try and remove his boots. The sharp intake of breath told her that the move pained him, so she scrambled over to help him. He didn't object as she pulled his boots off, didn't push her away even when she gently touched his injured thigh, though he did grunt. "It's only bruised," he said when she looked up at him anxiously, "not broken. It just hurts like a… it hurts, that's all."

"You should let me look at it," she pleaded with him, "just in case. And bandage that cut as well." He gave a slight shrug that she took as assent. She struggled to remove his shirt, trying not to cause him any more pain than she had to. Still, he stifled a cry when he had to lift his left arm, and when the shirt was finally off the wound bled freely. Sansa looked around for something, anything to use as a bandage. His shirt was probably stained beyond repair, but he didn't have another one to wear, and she was reluctant to just rip it up for rags.

"In their packs," he told her," there should be something you can use." His face was pale, so she made haste. As he'd said, there was a roll of clean bandages in one of the saddle bags neatly stacked outside. She grabbed the small sewing kit that was there as well, after a moment's thought, and returned to the cottage at a run, not looking at the dead bodies or the blood.

Sandor eyed her skeptically as she stepped over the threshold. "Are you a septa now?" he asked sharply.

"Someone has to do it," she replied, "and I don't think you can reach to stitch it yourself. Septa Mordane always said how good I was at needlework." He frowned, but didn't object further. Sansa did her best to clean the wound, trying to ignore the occasional curses from her patient. Then came the hardest part, the actual stitching. It was an awkward angle, and she found the best way to reach while leaving her hands free was to straddle his thick thigh. He looked away, but maybe that was just to give her a better view of the cut. "I'm going to do it now, try not to move," she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

He managed not to move too much, but his teeth and fists were clenched tight as she worked. It took her fourteen stitches to close the wound, and by the time she was through he was sweating more than he'd done during the fight, it seemed. She could smell the hot, heavy scent of him, so close, and it took a great effort for her to turn away and fetch the bandages. She wrapped them tightly, looping several times down across his chest and under his other arm to secure them before she was finally satisfied that it would hold. "Now, your leg," she said.

Sandor shifted awkwardly. "You don't need to look at it, you've done plenty already."

"Don't be silly," said Sansa. "It's not as if I haven't seen you with your breeches off before." They never talked about what had happened between them at Joffrey's orders, or what she'd done for Sandor afterwards. It was as if he had deliberately put aside everything that had happened in that room when he locked the door. That he made no objection to Sansa mentioning it now was probably a sign of how much pain he was in. He didn't stop her when she began unlacing his breeches, and stood, somewhat gingerly, to help her ease them off, leaving him in nothing but his smallclothes.

The horse's hoof had broken the skin of his upper thigh, but not as deeply as she had feared might be the case. As he'd said, it looked like it would be an awful bruise, but no worse, and she told him so with considerable relief. "I said as much," he snapped back, but there was no anger behind his tone.

"You ought to lie down," she said. "We can rest here another day – oh, unless you think there are more of them coming?" What would happen if any other pursuers caught up with them now, with him in no condition to fight again, didn't bear thinking on.

Fortunately, Sandor shook his head. "I doubt he sent any more than those two after us. With the war going so badly, he can't spare the men." He leaned on Sansa's shoulder as she helped him over to the mattress in front of the hearth. "Not even for you."

Sansa winced slightly at that, but didn't respond except to say, "Good, then I can build up the fire again, and you can rest." She covered him with the blanket and one of the white cloaks, and busied herself with sorting through the contents of the knights' packs.

Eventually, Sandor did sleep. While he snored, Sansa did what she could to help make their stay more comfortable. She couldn't catch another one of the chickens, they seemed to have fled, but she did find, up in the loft, a nest containing two eggs. A search of the other huts that still stood revealed a rind of cheese, still edible if she scraped the mold off, a pair of turnips that still looked almost fresh, a barrel with three or four handfuls of dried beans rattling around in the bottom, and, best of all, a full leg of mutton hanging in a tiny smokehouse that must have been overlooked by whoever had raided this place. Combined with some of the small envelopes of spices she'd found in Ser Boros's saddlebag, it would make a decent meal by that evening.

Once the meat, beans and vegetables were simmering away over the fire, Sansa turned her attention to Sandor's clothes. They were stiff with blood and torn in several places, and she despaired of being able to do much to salvage the shirt in particular, but she did her best. She scrubbed it with clean snow until her hands were red and numb, getting out as much of the blood as she could, then laid it near the hearth to dry. There was a hole in the heel of one of his socks, she noticed, though he'd never complained of it. To darn it was only a matter of minutes, now that she had proper supplies, though she couldn't match the grey wool and had to resort to white strands picked from the poor dead horse's saddle-blanket.

She tried to take care of the surviving mare too, though it snapped at her at first when she tried to pat it. She managed to remove its saddle and bridle and rub it down with a handful of straw, and then cover it again with its blanket so it wouldn't get too cold. The day was clear and crisp, the sun shining brightly on the scene of carnage in the clearing. Sansa did her best to ignore the blood that painted the landscape in fading splashes, that had been hot enough to melt the snow in patches and was soaking down even now into the frozen ground.

When she returned to the warmth of what she had begun to think of as 'their' cottage, Sandor was still abed, rolled over onto his stomach. Sansa, chilled from her work outside, decided to join him there. She slid under the blessed warmth of the blanket and cloak, even savouring the prickling ache in her fingers as they began to regain feeling. With him at her back, even though they weren't touching, she felt perfectly safe as she shut her eyes against the early afternoon light and dozed off.

The sun was low in the sky when she was wakened by his hand on her hip. At first she thought it must have simply fallen there as he slept, but she soon realized he was gradually working his fingers under her clothes. When they'd left King's Landing, Joff's breeches had been too snug around her hips, but now they hung more loosely, and he was able to slide one large hand down them, bringing it slowly around to the front of her body. She gasped as he pulled her back against him, hard. The hair on his bare chest tickled her between her shoulder blades. "Oh, no, we shouldn't!"

His warm breath on the back of her neck made her hair stand on end as he murmured "Are you actually saying _no?_ " His fingers inched down, finding the border of the fine hair that nestled between her legs. "To _me_?"

"I…oh… it's not that. I just don't want you to hurt yourself."

"If it hurts too much, I'll stop," he said grimly. "You just do what I tell you and it'll be fine. Now get your clothes off."

There was something in his tone that made her want to leap to obey. Sansa wriggled quickly out of her breeches and shirt, though she tried to stay under the blanket. He drew it back, though, his eyes roaming freely over her bared breasts. Her skin prickled, but not only from the cool air. "Are you frightened?" he asked.

"N-no. I want this."

"Good. Open your legs."

Sansa trembled just a little as she did as she was told. His thick fingers felt rough as he slid them along her parted lips, pushing just to her entrance without going inside. She shut her eyes, and he brought his hand up to slap her across the face – not too hard, just enough to get her attention. "No daydreaming," he said harshly. "No pretending I'm someone else. You're going to fuck _me_ , not some pretty knight in your head."

"I'm sorry," she said meekly. "I want to please you. I'll do whatever you want."

"Then get on top of me." He was stiff, his cock rubbing against her, blunt and thick, as she clambered eagerly up to straddle him. "Go on already, you've wanted it long enough," he told her through gritted teeth.

She took him in hand to guide him into her. She wasn't quite wet enough, and it hurt going in, but still, it was better than Joffrey what had done to her many a time. She gasped a little, but pressed her way steadily down until she'd engulfed him completely. Sandor gave a shuddery breath out when she was finally there, as though he'd been holding himself in check. "Does it hurt?" he asked her, sounding almost anxious.

"No," Sansa told him, and bent down to kiss his lips. It wasn't a lie for long. Soon she was able to ride him more smoothly, gliding along his length as high as her thighs would take her before slamming back down with a squeal of excitement that she didn't have to feign. He thrust against her as best as he was able, though she could tell his wounds pained him if he tried to go too hard. His rough hands roamed over her body, cupping her breasts, circling around her back to pull her down for another kiss, pushing her short, stringy hair back from her face so he could see it more clearly. "I'm yours, only yours!" she cried as she drove herself down onto him, and felt him tense and shudder beneath her, watched lovingly as his face contorted in the grip of pleasure before everything finally grew still and he lay there, panting softly.

She slid to the mattress, curling close beside him in the way that always made her feel safest. There was some blood on the fingers of her right hand where she'd accidentally touched his wounded thigh in their passion. She licked it off, smiling to herself and hoping she hadn't hurt him too badly.

After a few minutes, Sandor rolled to face her with a grunt. "Was that all right?"

Sansa nodded. It seemed as though he wanted her to say something, though, so she added, "It felt good."

"It didn't remind you of…of him?"

"No! It's completely different." She hesitated, then said quietly, "I love you, Sandor."

"Mmph," he grumbled, but she knew he was pleased to hear it. "But you didn't…you know. Did you?"

A blush warmed her cheeks. "It's all right. I just want to make you happy. You _are_ happy, aren't you?"

"Happy enough. But fucking isn't going to keep us warm for long. Happiness won't feed us."

"The white cloaks will keep us warm, though, and we'll find food the way we've done all along. We have the horse now too, we can go faster. Everything will work out, I know it will. The gods wouldn't bring us all this way and not help us just a little further."

"Oh, will they? Did the gods help you when you were locked in that room?" he asked angrily.

Sansa's lip quivered, just on the edge of tears. "They sent you, you fool," she said at last, trying to keep her voice under control.

Sandor flinched as if she'd slapped him. Then, roughly, he pulled her into his embrace, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry, little bird," he whispered. "They should've sent you someone better."

"I don't…" She choked back the word 'deserve'. "I don't need someone better. I need _you_."

"Even though I'm a fool?"

In answer, she kissed him until she ran out of breath. When they broke apart, he was the closest to smiling she'd seen since they left King's Landing. "What will we do now?" she asked.

"Right now, I'm famished. I'll take some of whatever that is cooking over there, and then seconds if there's enough. After that, I'll drag the bodies into the trees where, if we're lucky, something'll eat them. I'll bring in enough wood to keep the fire going overnight, and find someplace for that horse to sleep that's out of the cold. And after that…"

"Yes?"

He looked away, uncomfortable.

"What?" she pressed him.

"We can do that again. If you'd like. Except I want you to…you know, enjoy it this time." He looked flustered as she smiled. "Now go on, get me some food before I starve," he said brusquely, but she could hear the affection in his voice.

They spent four more days in that cottage, and they were among the happiest that Sansa could remember. She imagined what it would be like to stay there forever. Living like peasants wasn't so bad, she thought, if you were in love and had a good man to protect you. She sat on the small stool by the fire, mending his shirt, doing her best to let out Ser Boros's tunic so that it would fit Sandor, or cutting one of the white cloaks down to size for herself, and daydreaming of the life they could build together. Sandor began to recover his strength, enough to chop more wood for their fire, and she loved to watch him as he worked, the way his muscles moved and the sweat that glistened on his skin. Sometimes she touched him just because she could, and he tolerated her affection and even caressed her back from time to time, becoming less clumsy as their familiarity grew. The first time she peaked for him and fell trembling across his chest, he couldn't stop smiling for hours afterwards.

By the fifth morning, however, they'd scavenged every bit of food they could find in the abandoned village, and Sandor insisted they had to move on. Reluctantly, Sansa gathered every useful remaining scrap and packed it all into the saddle bags. Sandor had eventually decided that taking ill-fitting armor would only be a burden, but they were both thankful for the knights' fur-lined leather gloves. They set off north once more, sometimes riding double, sometimes with Sandor walking alongside the horse, which Sansa had named Butterscotch.

The way grew harder as they moved closer to the Neck. The path was rougher, the land more broken and hilly, and the cold more intense. Still, they pressed on, heading for a goal neither of them could name, a place that might not even exist. If they were lucky, Sandor might manage to snare a rabbit or a squirrel to supplement their dinner. Some days they had nothing to eat at all, and Sansa envied Butterscotch's ability to find the meagre scraps of dry, brown grass beneath the snow. Her stolen breeches grew so loose that she had to tie them about her waist with a length of string. Their few coins were spent one day when Sandor finally, grudgingly agreed that they needed more food and sent Sansa into a small market town. He would have clearly preferred to go himself, but villagers were often suspicious of strangers in these troubled days, and would give less trouble to a thin-faced and ragged young woman than a large, scarred man carrying a sword. The market's pickings were slim, but she managed to buy some hard waybread, dried apples, and a sack of oats for porridge, just the thought of which made her mouth water.

As she walked back to where Sandor waited, struggling with the sack over her shoulder, she saw, hanging on a drooping clothesline outside a cottage, a pair of sturdy woolen mitts. Her hands were so numb with cold, despite the too-large gloves she wore, she barely even thought before snatching them and running. Sandor berated her for taking such a risk, but when he found that he could – just barely – squeeze his own hands into them, he mellowed considerably. After that, they shared them, trading back and forth, though Sandor insisted that she wear them more often. She tried not to think of whoever she'd stolen them from, or to wonder if their hands were cold without them.

Sansa had long since lost track of how long they'd been traveling on the day the storm hit. At first it was just more snow, but the wind kept increasing, until it was blowing so fiercely that it stung her face and she could barely see her hands in front of her. "We have to stop," Sandor finally yelled up to her, "before we fall off a cliff or ride into a bloody tree." There were no villages nearby, not in this swampy land, not even a hut to take shelter in. Sansa surreptitiously fed Butterscotch one of their remaining apples and leaned her head against the horse's warm, bony side while Sandor built them a lean-to from fallen branches. When the two of them were inside out of the wind, huddled together under both of their cloaks, it was passably warm even without a fire. There was no question of removing any of their clothing, of course, but Sandor enfolded her in his arms and kissed her with dry, chapped lips, and it was enough.

The snow had drifted up almost to the top of their shelter when they woke the next morning, stretching stiff limbs and breathing on their hands to try and defrost them. Sandor went outside to make water, but came back in quickly. "Horse's dead," he said grimly, and Sansa burst into tears. "Stop crying," he told her. "It would've been too hard for it to walk through this snow anyhow. We're better off on foot."

Sansa wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Poor Butterscotch. At least I fed her an apple last night."

"Why'd you do a stupid thing like that? We've only got four left, and before the end you'll wish you had that damned apple."

She said nothing, only sniffled as she tried to pack their things so that they could carry them on their backs. They had so little, it didn't take long before they could set off, trudging through the snow. Sandor went ahead of her to break the path, and she followed. For the first time, she began to wonder when – not if – they would die.

After a full day of walking through knee-deep snow, her legs felt like planks of wood and she staggered with each step, so weary she was half-asleep on her feet. Sandor said nothing to her, so intent was he on their route, just plodding on doggedly, hands stuffed into his armpits and chin tucked down against the wind. The land ahead was white, almost featureless, vast and empty, and there was little to even distinguish snow from sky, except for a slight greyish tint to the cloud cover. Sansa thought she might go mad from the silence, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps and the steady rasp of their breath. "We need to find shelter…rest," she finally said, as much to hear a voice again as to communicate what he surely already knew, when the sky broke open with a roar.

They both looked up, startled. A huge beast, gold and white, dropped down below the clouds, wings spread wide as it glided gracefully down to land. Sandor drew his sword and placed himself between Sansa and the dragon without a second thought. The creature looked at them with what seemed like a skeptical tilt to its head, and from its back, a familiar voice shouted "Hound! You're looking worse than usual, I must say. But if that's my wife, I'm most grateful to you for keeping her unscathed." Tyrion craned his short neck to try and get a better look at Sansa. "Well, relatively unscathed."

Sandor kept his sword raised. "Who says I'm giving her back to you?"

Tyrion laughed. "I do. Well, Viserion might have something to say about it as well." The dragon snorted, and a gout of flame burst from its maw – not even close enough to warm their faces, but Sandor blanched nevertheless, and Sansa could feel him shaking, though he stood his ground. "Now, don't be stupid," Tyrion continued cheerfully. "You look like you're both about to freeze to death, if you don't starve first. I'm not sure where you think you're headed, but if it's Winterfell, you'll be sorely disappointed – there's very little left there. I'll take you back to civilization, and we'll sort things out from the comfort of a warm room, with plenty of food and drink to make things go down smoother. The war's over, by the way. There's a new queen on the throne, and a whole lot of changes in the works."

Sansa tugged on Sandor's sleeve. "Listen to him," she begged. "We're dead otherwise, whether he kills us himself or just leaves us here."

"I didn't come all this way to hand you over to…"

"To my family. That's what you said. I know this isn't what you meant, but he is my husband. And if Joffrey's dead, then maybe things would be all right…" Her eyes were wet with tears. "I'd make sure you were safe."

"Oh, would you? Thank you very much, your fucking ladyship, but I'll take my own chances."

"But you'll die!" she cried, clinging to his arm. "I won't let you, not after everything we've been through!"

Tyrion cleared his throat. "I'm reluctant to break up this very moving scene, but we really ought to be on our way. The weather is getting worse. Rest assured, Hound, you will be more than adequately rewarded for your service to my family – well, what's left of it. Mainly just me, in fact. Now get up here or I'll have Viserion breathe at you some more until you faint and then I'll strap you to his back myself."

Sandor, trapped, looked from the dragon to Sansa and back again. "Seven buggering hells," he muttered. "I wouldn't do this for anyone else, you know," he told her, and bent down to kiss her with a complete lack of concern for her watching husband's sensibilities. Then he walked slowly toward the dragon, head held high. Sansa hurried after him, and let him help her up onto the beast's broad, scaled back. He hesitated for a long moment before clambering up himself, and kept his eyes screwed shut for the entire breathtaking flight to Casterly Rock.

***

As the Queen's Hand, Tyrion necessarily spent most of his time at court, leaving his wife to manage the Lannister estates. When their first son was born some eight months after her fortuitous rescue, they gave thanks that the child was strong and healthy despite his early birth. They named him Eddard, and everyone smiled politely and said what a handsome boy he was. There was dark hair in the Stark line, and, Tyrion aside, most of the Lannisters had been on the tall side, so really, there was nothing _that_ unusual about the child's looks. When the next one arrived two years later, a girl named Sanda, people said how nice it was that Sansa had a daughter named after herself, and anyone who counted the months from her husband's last visit to Casterly Rock and came up with the wrong answer decided it was in their best interest not to mention the discrepancy.

Sansa didn't pry into what her husband did with his spare time, or who he spent it with – he was clearly content, and that was all that mattered. He treated her politely, on the rare occasions she saw him, and allowed her a great deal of discretion in the administration of their estates, which she handled with grace and skill. Nor did he interfere with her affairs, though she didn't doubt for a second that he was aware of her true feelings. As long as she was discreet enough not to bring scandal down upon their house, she was free to do as she wished. The Lannisters had had their fill of scandal, and Sansa's quiet hours spent with her tall, brooding captain of the guard were nothing compared to the shocking stories that had come out since the war's end. To Sansa's relief, however, no one, not even her husband, seemed to know what Joff had done to her. No one except Sandor, that is, and he never mentioned it, even to her. In time, it faded into a long-ago bad dream, though even into her old age she always started slightly when she heard a key turn in a lock unexpectedly.

Sometimes Sandor grumbled about having to sneak around, the frustration of keeping everything secret, but she could usually soothe him with a kiss or a song, and made sure at least to smile at him from across the room even when others were around. Still, she too enjoyed thinking back to those simpler days in the cottage when she'd sat sewing peacefully by the fire and watched Sandor chop wood. She even liked to remember the very end of their journey together, when they had been too cold and tired and hungry to make love and so they'd simply held each other, open and unashamed.


End file.
